


Trust Falls

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Breathplay, Choking, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Guilt, Kink Meme, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Powerplay, Rough Sex, Strength Kink, possessive Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23449147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Crowley confesses a need, and finds that his angel is not averse to indulging him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 102
Kudos: 787
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	Trust Falls

They're tangled together in the sheets, bodies reluctant to part, even when the thrum of satisfaction fades into quiet indulgence, into soft conversation. There's no pressing reason to leave the bed, nowhere for them to be, and sharing one bedroom has become a relatively recent development, that Crowley is still finding more than a touch thrilling. The questions offered into the quiet have drifted somehow to their sexual histories, to the things that they'd enjoyed before, things that they'd always wanted to try, or found humans ill-equipped to give them. Aziraphale has already shared so many things that Crowley had immediately wanted to do for him, even the things that had made him laugh, rudely, into the angel's neck. Which had led to him getting his arse swatted for the cheek of it. 

Crowley's sleepy and content, sprawled possessively across Aziraphale's body, long-adored and constantly desired, feeling the thump of his well-behaved heart beneath his own. Still not entirely convinced that he deserves this. Aziraphale is clearly waiting for Crowley's own confession, patient but clearly curious, for whatever he wants to share. They'd both promised honesty in this, though Crowley can count on one hand the number of times he's actually lied to Aziraphale, or hidden the truth in a way that was as close enough to deceit as made no difference. He shares because Aziraphale has asked him to. He admits to things he's thought about, the simplest and easiest of them first, forcing them out and finding they don't make him feel half as vulnerable as he's afraid they will. Aziraphale hums amusement and interest, fingers sliding at the base of Crowley's spine. 

It's easy, almost too easy, to share things that perhaps he shouldn't, rougher things, the sharp-edged and secret wants that he's rarely admitted to, never thought he'd ever voice out loud. The desire to belong to Aziraphale, to be pinned and helpless, a strong hand around his throat, quiet demands that he be still and be used, that he would breathe only when Aziraphale allowed it - and the angel is suddenly very quiet, and very still.

Crowley regrets his honesty immediately, starts the impossible task of trying to pull some of it back, play it down, _fix it_ somehow. Because he can feel the soft intimacy from before curling and souring at the edges. It's his fault, because of course it is. He's suddenly a line of awful tension in the bed they'd made their own. 

Crowley constantly protests that he's not like other demons, and then does his best to prove himself wrong. To prove that it's in his nature to ruin things.

Aziraphale must feel it too, because he winds an arm around Crowley's waist and encourages him to settle again, lays his head against the top of Crowley's, and murmurs reassurance.

"I was just surprised," Aziraphale tells him, voice still so soft, empty of anything approaching horror, or disgust. "The last of those was an unexpected direction. I'm not upset, I would never shame you for admitting something you want."

He doesn't have to, Crowley does enough of that himself. Has done enough of it over the last six thousand years.

"Can you tell me why?" The question is quiet and curious, and no matter how hard he tries Crowley can't find any judgement in it.

He makes a frustrated noise. 

"It's a sex thing, angel," he says, tone as dismissive as he can make it. Because he desperately wants to make it sound like it means nothing to him, like a passing want, a curiosity. He'd rather not go into the why, rather not poke at it, for fear that it will force him to think too hard about it, to admit to things he's not comfortable with, expose places he's vulnerable.

Aziraphale shuffles them a bit, so he can see Crowley's face - and Crowley thinks he owes him that at least, so he lets him. The angel's expression is far too serious for someone who's currently naked in bed with him. Crowley can't help but think it's doing its best to remind him that Aziraphale has read more books on the subject of sexual expression and experimentation than Crowley has - than anyone has. Which feels deeply unfair, considering the angel's actual hands-on experience extends only to the last century and a half. Crowley ignores the look, because, quite frankly, there's no need for it.

"It's almost entirely a sex thing," he corrects, grudgingly, which is the most Aziraphale is getting from him, at least for now. "It's not important, I don't - it's not something I expect you to -"

"I would never judge your for your desires," Aziraphale says quietly, when Crowley can't find a way to end the explanation. There's so much gentle reassurance in the words, and Crowley's pulling away from it, instinctively, before Aziraphale's arm stops him, curls around him, and gently draws him back against his body. "But I also want you to be safe."

He doesn't say what he means, which is that no one else could hurt him like Aziraphale could.

"I'm always safe when I'm with you," Crowley points out. Because it's true, even if the angel found his limits, he would never push beyond them. Though Crowley doesn't mean it to sound so - so much like something the angel might say. But he can't bring himself to take it back, not when Aziraphale gives a cracked sound of surprised adoration and kisses the top of his head, like the ridiculous sap that he is.

"Still, the idea of hurting you while we're being intimate is...it's difficult for me," Aziraphale admits at last.

Of course it is, _of course it is._

"I know," Crowley tells him. "It's fine, I don't expect you to - it's fine, angel. Don't worry about it."

~

Aziraphale doesn't say anything else to Crowley, he doesn't bring it up again, even though Crowley half expects him to. But new books appear in the shop, slipped under piles as if to hide them from view, hidden imperfectly under takeaway leaflets, the dusty, wrinkled concertinas of old maps, and brand new catalogues trying to sell shoes to old people. Crowley doesn't say anything either, but he suspects that the angel is doing research. He's learning about safewords, and safe signals, studying anatomy texts and diagrams of the human circulatory system. 

Crowley has very complicated feelings about it all.

He'd never expected Aziraphale to even consider agreeing. He knows how the angel feels about violence, how he dislikes to be reminded of how much stronger he is than Crowley. It's not the sort of desire that's easy to explain to someone who's always been so reluctant to cause another pain, who's always avoided pain where possible. Someone who hasn't spent thousands of years getting intimately acquainted with all the various forms of it.

The sort of angel who would be comfortable doing what Crowley wants - is not the sort of angel Aziraphale wants to be. _Not the sort of angel Crowley should ask him to be._

So the idea that Aziraphale is thinking about what Crowley asked for, that he's exploring the possibility, making sure that he knows enough not to make a mistake and hurt him, leaves him twisting in complicated, guilty arousal. He loves Aziraphale, impossibly and endlessly, for all the things he'll do for him, and sometimes for the things he won't do for him. He always manages to surprise Crowley with the moments when he chooses to be impulsive, when he chooses to be creative. It never seems to be when he expects, and those flashes of bravery never fail to thrill him. But a larger part of Crowley feels deeply guilty for wanting it at all, for suggesting it as something he desires, something he's imagined Aziraphale doing to him. That he's touched himself repeatedly, and guiltily, to thoughts of it, with his own hand curled tight round his throat. It feels dirty somehow, it feels cruel, to have the love of his life, after waiting for so long, and to ask him for this. When Aziraphale has admitted to nothing but soft desires for intimacy, and exploration, and sensation.

Aziraphale wants to make love, and Crowley wants to be choked into submission and used, like the filthy demon he is.

It bothers him enough that he thinks about telling the angel that it's fine, that he doesn't need it. It's just a fantasy. Crowley doesn't need to live it out, not if it's something Aziraphale is going to find painful to go through with. Not if it's something that's going to upset him. He loves him too much for that.

He's going to say it.

He is.

Only weeks drag by, and he just _doesn't_.

Until he's filling the plant mister to see to the bookshop's long-neglected plants, tap flicked on with absent fingers, when Aziraphale slips in behind him, curling into his back as if he belongs there. He settles his hands on Crowley's hips, presses his mouth against the vulnerable place behind his ear, the flaring warmth of his exhale sending a shiver down his neck that has promise. Crowley sets the mister down, and lets himself relax.

"Want something, angel?" he asks, and there's more than a hint of suggestion in the question. _Something I can give you? Name it, it's yours._

Aziraphale very slowly slides his hand up Crowley's chest, warm where the open collar of his shirt exposes the skin. It keeps going, fingers touching the roll of his adam's apple, before his hand turns and opens, fingers and thumb separate and continuing upwards, the web of Aziraphale's hand sliding up Crowley's throat. It settles there, loose around his neck in a way that makes the throb of Crowley's pulse suddenly fast and sharp, leaves him hissing in air and stilling, legs suddenly weak, arousal climbing rapidly inside him like a vine. 

"Do you want to come upstairs?" Aziraphale's voice is soft, but it's offering so much. It's offering Crowley everything.

A thumb rubs at the long slope of his neck, putting the slightest pressure into the movement. The sensation blooms outwards, makes Crowley's skin prickle and tighten.

"You know I would," he manages through a dry throat. And suddenly it's all there, in the back of his mouth, acidic on his tongue, then spilling forth like the mess from a wound. "Aziraphale, angel, you know you don't have to do this if you don't want to. I would never ask you to do something that made you uncomfortable. Not you, never you. This isn't something I need -"

Aziraphale shushes him, kisses the side of his face, a long, certain press of mouth over the twisting curl of his serpentine essence that stills him instantly.

"Why don't you tell me exactly what you've fantasised about, and I will decide what makes me comfortable, how's that?"

Crowley's eyes fall shut, he lets Aziraphale take his weight, lets the heat of him soak through the thin material of his shirt.

"Alright." Crowley slithers around, kisses the angel before he can talk, gratitude for everything the angel accepts, and apology for everything Crowley is - though he doesn't think Aziraphale knows that, because Crowley doubts he'd stand for it.

Aziraphale guides him upstairs, and Crowley manages, step by step, in halting, awkward words, to explain, to share how he'd pictured it, over the years. The possessiveness of it, the control, the need that strays all the way up to violence, and then tips over. To being helpless for the angel in a way he'd never be for anyone else. To being an object for his pleasure, a thing for him to use, to own, to break. The desire for his strength and his unbendable will, to having that turned upon him, to be helpless under it. The slow rushing delirium that comes with oxygen deprivation, the world speeding and slowing with the rush of his blood. How much he wants, wants, wants all the time, and needs Aziraphale to take hold of that need and strangle it. 

He needs Aziraphale. All the time.

He admits it all, and he hates it, and it leaves him gasping, letting Aziraphale kiss him against the door frame of their bedroom, dragging his shirt over his head, and the belt out of his jeans and tossing both to the floor. Aziraphale's hands are demanding for a change, ungentle with him. They grasp, and pull, and pin him to the wood, kiss him like it's a punishment, bite at his mouth. Crowley encourages it, the quiet fury of it, it feels like he's drowning. 

"You think I've never wanted you like this," Aziraphale says between kisses, not angry but firm, as if Crowley has been foolish - so very foolish to think otherwise. "Wanted to grasp you in my hands and keep you." 

He's pushed down to the bed, grunting agreement, wanting in every cell of his Hell-constructed body, as Aziraphale roughly strips his jeans from him, and uses his hands to drag Crowley's legs apart. He leaves him there, open and exposed while he removes his own clothes, unbuttoning and folding in well-practised, meticulous motions. While Crowley's heart pounds like a wild thing.

"You think I've never looked at you, and desired you so much I was afraid of it. Afraid that I would hurt you, that I would break you and you would never forgive me."

The words burn their way through him, and it's everything he'd wanted to hear, everything he'd needed Aziraphale to say.

"Aziraphale." Crowley's throat makes a soft noise when he swallows, cracked and wet. He would always forgive him, _always_.

"Would you please show me your safe signal," Aziraphale asks quietly.

Crowley obediently holds up two fingers, in a clear gesture. A movement that Crowley's fairly sure he can make while being deprived of oxygen and fucked senseless. Though he knows that he won't need it. There's only one reckless idiot in this partnership, but he's not going to be the one in charge in this scenario. He genuinely can't help the way his body stretches and shivers, at the reminder that he won't be able to talk during this, that he won't be able to physically push Aziraphale off of him. That everything he is, he's trusting to the angel.

"Very good," Aziraphale tells him, something of relief in his voice, before he catches that same hand, lifting it and pressing his mouth to it. A warm spread of dampness and heat and affection that makes Crowley shiver and lay back, watch Aziraphale strip off the last of his clothes, and then come to him.

Crowley is dragged down the bed, thighs spread wider to make room for Aziraphale's hips, there's nothing of his normal, slow indulgence. He looks impatient now, considering the spread of Crowley's body with an obvious, greedy intent. Crowley finds his hips canting upwards of their own accord. A bottle of lubricant appears on the bed, and it's no time at all before two, thick fingers are pressing against the clenching warmth of his anus, and then pushing all the way inside. Crowley gives a shocked, hissing moan of pleasure, at the stinging burn of them.

Aziraphale's fingers never stop moving, but his other hand slides up Crowley's chest, a pressing spread of heat that becomes fingers moving upwards, until there's a palm against the vulnerable line of his throat. Aziraphale's hand locks firm and tight around the column of his neck, not adding pressure, just circling his throat, holding him loosely to the bed, and Crowley's exhale shakes out at the promise of it. His dick is already stiff against his stomach, balls already pulling, pulse slamming in his throat as sensation burns him alive.

"M'not going to last," Crowley warns him. "Aziraphale, please."

He's barely stretched but Aziraphale pulls his fingers free, uses that hand to slick and then position himself, the head of his cock breaching Crowley and then driving in, in one beautiful, stinging push.

"Ah - ugh." Crowley's whole body feels it, stretches for it, tries to push closer. "Fuck, angel, yes, just like that."

Crowley groans and squirms under the hot curl of fingers round his throat. He's never been quite so vividly aware that his neck is just a fragile stalk of skin, tendons and fine, breakable bones, now held tight under the angel's impossibly strong hand, which is slowly adding pressure in small increments. Crowley's heels are already dragging up the bed, spreading and lifting his own thighs, letting the angel's cock sink deeper into him, and a rough hiss escapes his clenched teeth. While his dick throbs in delicious anticipation against his stomach, leaving a thin line of pre-come on his skin.

"You're going to be good for me," Aziraphale rumbles out. 

It's not a question. But Crowley tries to nod, realises that he can't, the line of his neck held tight, the ring of Aziraphale's fingers holding his head still.

"Yes," he hisses. Because it's the truth, he's going to be good. Aziraphale is going to _make_ him be good.

Aziraphale shivers out his name, as if he'd heard the thought, and then tightens his hand, makes every breath feel like a fight.

Yes.

This.

This is what he wants.

The pace Aziraphale sets is hard and deep, jolting Crowley's body enough that it punches the breath out of him on every solid thrust. He can hear the noises straining out of his throat, thick with pleasure and gratitude. His hands lift to catch at Aziraphale's forearm and waist, needing to touch him, needing to ground himself.

"This is how I want you," Aziraphale tells him. "This is where you belong, for me and no one else."

Crowley groans agreement, feeling the throbbing of his own pulse under the curl of Aziraphale's fingers.

"Yes -"

The hand tightens, a slow, impossible squeeze of pressure, turning his words into a strained wheeze of sound. Until Crowley can't breathe, he can't drag in a single molecule of air, and since his corporation is convinced that it needs oxygen to survive it doesn't take it long to panic in a predictable manner. Aziraphale has spread his legs all the way open, thick cock pushing into him deep and hard, in careless, punishing thrusts. In a way that Crowley can't protest, or resist, in a way he's helpless to do anything but take.

But he still resists, he still pulls, strains, claws at the arm braced over his chest. The angel is everything, a solid, blunt shape of impossible strength, beautiful and powerful, immovable, unbreakable, no matter how hard Crowley tries. It's exactly what he wanted, and he's clenching down on him, insides coiling hotly for more of it, even as his body sends frantic, panicked signals to his brain. 

Aziraphale's giving soft, moaning exhales of pleasure, fingers squeezing rhythmically on every thrust. All Crowley can do is squirm, and make strained, choked, helpless sounds while he's fucked into the bed.

And it is _fucking magnificent_.

Crowley could absolutely discorporate like this, and not have a single regret.

The hand loosens just enough for Crowley to give a cracking groan of air, and to draw in a mouthful, before the fingers close tight again, leaving his head throbbing pleasantly and his stiff cock trailing threads of pre-come across his stomach.

He is Aziraphale's. He's always been Aziraphale's - his to do whatever he wants with - to use whenever he wants, to hurt if he needs him to, to break and bleed and submit, in any way that pleases him. Though Crowley knows that Aziraphale would never. He knows that he will never be as safe as he is right now, under the brutal, squeezing grip of Aziraphale's hand. The thought of it though, he can still get off on the thought of it. His skin feels too small, chest tight and straining for air, arse sore and stretched, every inch of him pulled tight as a wire, and unbearably vulnerable. 

He can't breathe, he will only breathe when Aziraphale decides, only when Aziraphale allows it. The angel is going to take his pleasure from him, and then if Crowley's good enough, if he's satisfying enough Aziraphale will let him breathe again, will let him come.

Only Aziraphale

Only ever and always Aziraphale.

Azira -

Az -

Blood rushes in his ears, and Crowley counts six, bruising thrusts before Aziraphale's hand allows his aching throat to gasp in another unsatisfying rasp of air, before it closes again, squeezes sharply. Crowley feels pinned and helpless and desperate, oxygen burning away as he squirms and pulls uselessly at that unbreakable grip, and the next few thrusts burn against his hastily prepared rim. It's a delicious sort of pain-pleasure, head swimming with it. 

Aziraphale is grating out words between thrusts, nothing close to his nicely put together sentences, they're dragged out of his throat, razor-sharp through his teeth. Nothing like an angel of mercy, and everything like the righteous, possessive fury that Crowley has been craving. To be wanted to the point of destruction. There are demands for Crowley to stay, to be this for him. There are promises that Aziraphale is the only one who will ever do this for him. He will not allow anyone else to touch Crowley this way, never anyone but him. But there's also the simple, obscene appreciation of his body, of all the things Aziraphale will do to it, all the things he will use it for. The things Crowley deserves, the things that he's good for.

Crowley loves his angel, loves him desperately and completely and he's going to make sure that every single one of Aziraphale's fantasies comes true, every one. He can feel the rough, greedy thrusts against his raised arse, that are going to leave it fantastically bruised. He can feel the hard, spearing, painful pleasure of it, as he's opened and filled, over and over. He can't push down into it, can't pull away from it, but he can spread his legs wider, lewd and eager and _desperate_ to be everything Aziraphale needs.

His chest is on fire, and his legs are thrashing and kicking in the sheets, eyes blown to full yellow, pupils a slit of darkness. He can feel the panicked flutter of his tongue, whipping long and thin from his mouth, trying to drag in air. Aziraphale is braced over him so perfectly, and if Crowley un-focuses a little he can see the raised, over-stretched mass of his wings, protective, and battle-ready. Crowley's own would thrash weakly underneath him, if he was to pull them out, Aziraphale's to pin to the bed with his knees, leaving him helpless, and Crowley _aches_ for want of it. The angel's forearm is immovable under Crowley's digging fingers. He looks stern and forbidding, and impossibly beautiful in all his incredible, impossible angelic glory. Crowley's body held down like a conquest, forced to take every brutal thrust. Aziraphale's pace is quicker and harder now, as he nears the edge, and Crowley wants him to reach it, wants to feel it before he comes, before the world goes dark, and he honestly doesn't care which one comes first. This is everything he's ever wanted.

The world is throbbing with spots of black light and Crowley's so hard it aches, balls drawn up tight enough to hurt. 

Aziraphale pushes in deep on a groan of bliss, hand suddenly squeezing sharply enough to leave Crowley's throat burning, to make everything inside his neck creak and click. He feels the long, hot pulses of come that spill into his sore arse, and he would whimper if he was capable of it, as his own cock spits jealously, eagerly, so close, so very close. Aziraphale doesn't let him go, and the world is just a tunnel of darkness with sparking edges and -

He falls. 

Crowley's drowning in ecstasy, helpless under the crushing weight of it, it's dizzying, painful and endless. He's coming, with an intensity that almost hurts, over his own stomach and chest, wet splashes of it hitting his skin, drooling down the flushed red length of his cock. It's never felt so sharp, or gone on for so long, a rolling shiver of dizzy, dizzy pleasure. 

It drags on, even as the world starts to go fuzzy at the edges, darts of pure blackness scything in. His straining, kicking legs slow, and then fall weakly open.

And suddenly Crowley's neck is naked and cold, _burning_ , and he's gasping painful lungfuls of air, the world spinning around him, lurching in and out. The only sounds he can make are cracked, wheezing moans and choked, painful inhales, as he trembles through the aftershocks. It feels like being dragged back to life.

Aziraphale's face is against the side of his own, as his softening cock eases out of Crowley in one careful slide, before he can lay beside him. His strong hand is now so gentle on Crowley's body, stroking him in long, soothing glides, while Crowley hauls in air, fingers scrabbling weakly for Aziraphale's face, his neck, his shoulders. To hold some part of the angel against him, and it takes him a second to realise that Aziraphale is talking.

" - love you," Aziraphale is saying softly, voice breathy and quiet, more than a little shaken. "I love you so very much. You are so beautiful, there is nothing about you that I don't love, desperately. I would never hurt you. You know I would never hurt you."

Crowley can't speak yet, he's still shaking from the intensity of it, and there's no movement in his spasming, narrow throat. There's nothing but the cold, painful spills of air downwards and in, filling him up again, carving him open. Instead he draws Aziraphale closer, until the angel curls into him, kisses the bruised redness of Crowley's neck until it slowly fades. Until the grating, sharpness eases. Until Crowley can breathe air and not splinters of glass. Until he can finally make words.

"I know, angel, I know. I'm perfectly fine. I love you too." There's still a breathy croak to his voice. But Crowley lifts a hand, combing his fingers through pale hair, fingertips smoothing the back of Aziraphale's neck, his wide shoulders, the valley along his spine, between where his wings would emerge. Which tugs a quiet noise out of him. Crowley gently rolls them into a better position, until he can tuck Aziraphale protectively into the angles of his body. Where he's still shivering and damp with sweat, feeling the sweet remnants of pleasure tugging at his muscles. "You were so good, Aziraphale, you were perfect. That was perfect. You gave me exactly what I wanted, thank you."


End file.
